


Through a Looking Glass

by Prix



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27398077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prix/pseuds/Prix
Summary: Morrigan assumes she must be the least of the Warden's friends and the most forgettable until she learns that she is not.
Relationships: Morrigan/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2020





	Through a Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Settiai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Settiai/gifts).



Morrigan calls her sister, but the word makes her throat ache as soon as it leaves. It is not the right word for what she feels. 

She had asked Morrigan once before if she had any sisters, if there were any others _like her_ – the daughters of Flemeth – in the world. Morrigan has never known the answer, but the thought of a sister makes her heart tinge toward jealousy. She has understood that to be a fairly common emotion among siblings, but if she feels any jealousy toward _her_ , it is of an entirely different nature. 

Morrigan watches her friend – her _‘sister,’_ – with the others. 

She watches her with Leliana, indulging all her tales and songs, listening to her wild and fervent _beliefs_ based upon nothing but hope. 

She sees her with Sten, holding her ground and arguing with him as one might argue with a stone. And yet, she sees his respect for her grow against all odds. 

Her friend can even tolerate the Circle mage. She turns to her for advice and motherly comfort, and yet she does not become ensnared by all the foolish submission that old woman believes to be right. It is an impressive feat that she can befriend Morrigan and Wynne alike without becoming odious to either, and yet Morrigan cannot help but perk up her ears to listen when they speak with each other along their journey. 

The way she moves when Zevran teaches her his art is much like dancing Morrigan has seen from afar. She can sympathize with why his skills are useful, respectable even, but it does not stop the strange way it makes her face redden. She looks away from it to her own little fire. 

The dwarf is crude and always stinks of alcohol, and yet Morrigan cannot help but follow her lead and be kind enough to him to be dragged into a misadventure, trying to save a doomed love. She cannot imagine why anyone would have loved him in the first place, but the thought fills her with pity that directs itself inward like thorns and nettles sticking in her skin. 

Morrigan wishes sometimes that she were more like the creature made of stone. Shale has a way of holding herself above fleshly affairs that Morrigan herself lacks, try as she might to remain apart from the world of man. It is in her blood, and Shale laughs at them all – including her friend, who commands the respect of everyone as _‘The Warden’_ now, her reputation preceding them wherever they go – no blood to shed over any of this at all. 

And then there is Alistair. He has been with the Warden from the beginning – a Warden himself, though his reputation is not quite so widespread as hers, whatever is in his blood. 

He is naive, quite rude, and impossible to reason with. Nevertheless, he has been a true companion to her friend, and when she watches them laugh together, sees him teach her what little he remembers of his training, Morrigan’s chest aches with regret of something not done, something not possible. 

She knows how this will end. She knows what she must do to them both. 

Morrigan holds the cool handle of the ornate mirror, feeling the gold, fine and almost soft against her palm. She looks at her reflection, not quite as tarnished as it ought to be for the way she has lived her life out in the Wilds. She wonders what _her friend_ thinks of what _she_ sees when she looks at her. She wonders how she thinks of her would-be _‘sister,’_ if at all. 

In the days that have passed since she made the confession – that she _cares_ for her, however she knows how – she has regretted her words, found them wanting and incomplete. Nevertheless, each evening they are in camp she casts herself into the shadows. She watches her with them all, wishing she knew how to truly be among them. Wishing she knew how to be with her, a little longer and a little more closely.

* * *

Morrigan keeps one promise, at least. Whatever _the Warden_ and Alistair think of her now, she can at least see to it that she does not get in their way and that they no longer can distract her from her purpose. She knows that the tiny thing in her belly which can hardly be called a child yet contains a world of knowledge, lost to the world and to be found again in a little less than a year. 

She tries to focus upon that, rather than how cold or else drenched with sweat she is, trekking alone to find her way.

* * *

Morrigan does not know what causes her to wait. She has left the child in safe hands long enough to make final preparations, but to her surprise being away from him for even a few hours makes something inside her uneasy. Perhaps it is what she knows now – about Flemeth, what she _is_ and where Morrigan had come from – but she fears that it is something much more vulnerable, fragile. 

Then she hears footsteps approaching. They are the bipedal footsteps of men and women, echoing in a way they would not above ground. She looks back, ready to defend herself, to fight. 

Then she hopes she will not have to. 

Relief and anger – frustration – flood her in equal measure as she lays eyes upon her _friend_ she had hoped – expected – never to see again. Now she lingers, though she could leap through the eluvian without pause, because she so fervently wants to see her, if only once more. 

She speaks her name when given the chance, and hearing her say _‘Morrigan,’_ as she pleads for an explanation or some change to her plans tugs at her heart in much the same way being away from Kieran makes her feel sick and uneasy. 

Finally, they are standing face to face. They are close enough to touch, though Morrigan stands a little higher. Looking _down_ into such an accomplished, resilient person’s eyes feels like flying – like flying away. She wishes she did not have to, but she cannot express such a treacherous thought. 

“Take me with you.” 

The words strike Morrigan enough that she takes a small step back. She straightens herself and glances back at the rippling surface of the eluvian. It is a temptation, an offer, that she had never thought to reckon with. Of all the people she could go along with, why would she pick her? 

“You… cannot know what you ask,” Morrigan tells her, cautiously. She shifts her weight a little, uncertain and wishing to take another form that would be better at fleeing, better at saying no to the woman before her, but she does not think such a form exists. Not one she can take, anyway. 

“I do,” she replies, her eyes bright and clear. It is as if she does not see her two companions behind her. She takes a step closer to Morrigan, and Morrigan can do naught but retreat by another small step. She _wants_ to nod her head, to laugh, to reach for her hand and to _agree_. 

But she cannot. 

“What about your life?” she asks. “Your king?” she asks, pointedly. She cannot imagine how it is that Alistair might be left alone to rule Ferelden without _the Warden’s_ very careful oversight. 

For a moment, Morrigan believes that she has talked sense into her. She watches her eyes go a bit distant. She looks down, and they shine a bit – like water under moonlight. But then she sees a familiar set of her jaw, watches her fingers curl toward her palm. 

“I am here. I am here to help you. I came to find you. And if you will not come back with me, then I will go forward with you. Alistair would want to know that his son his safe, that he lives, and if you believe he is in danger in this world, then I will help you in another. I will… come back, one day, and I will bring you both with me,” she says, determined. 

Morrigan stares at her. She barely feels it as she starts to laugh. At first it is a cruel, sharp sound that reminds her of her mother, but it softens and she feels the way it shakes her insides like a personal earthquake. 

“You will bring me back with you? You intend to apprehend me?” she asks. 

Then, she feels something she had longed for but had never hoped to find the strength or moment to make happen. She feels her hand enveloped – skin and leather both gripping her with a warm, familiar touch even though it is the first time she has ever known it. Even _this_ – something so simple – is rare and new. 

It stops her talking; it stops her breathing for a moment. 

Finally, she asks _the Warden’s_ name again, barely a whisper, meant only for her ears. 

Morrigan is unaccustomed to feeling so uncertain, but the certainty in her _first_ and perhaps _only_ friend’s eyes is persuasive. 

“I will give you every confidence that your child will be safe, no matter what I must do. I will make _you_ safe, should Flemeth yet live. I… will follow you, and I hope that one day you will follow me again. And if you don’t, I… still cannot let you leave me here. I came all this way. For you.” 

Morrigan considers the confession. She dares not _hope_ or read too much into the words granted her, but she agrees. 

“Then… let us face the future together,” she hears herself say. 

Morrigan nods toward the book she had left behind. She calls out to speak to the elf that stands back at a safe distance. 

“I only meant to borrow it!” she calls, feeling an almost girlish thrill at the thought of truly not being _alone_ , no matter how cautious she must be.

* * *

There is a babbling brook of water which shines a little of its own power. It is dark here, but there are many creatures and plants which glow faintly, enough to light their faces in alluring shadows. Morrigan cannot help but think her companion beautiful as she watches her while she gently rocks a basket where her son sleeps contentedly, as if bewitched but most certainly not. 

Their eyes meet and Morrigan feels her take her hand again. It is not the first or the second time, but it is still a strange feeling. 

“I’m cold,” her friend informs her, and Morrigan does not need to know the world of men any better than she does to recognize the playful deception in the tone. It surprises her and she lifts her eyebrows, but she does not object as her friend leans closer and softly touches her lips with her own mouth. 

Morrigan makes a soft sound of alarm at how it feels, so tender and cautious where she knows that nothing they have done in all the time they have known each other has been truly cautious at all. She gives into it, pushing back into the kiss with relief. She had thought herself alone, a friend among many but a friend forgotten at last. Forgotten for the better. But perhaps she is not only a friend but a lover, and she is glad to finally know that.

**Author's Note:**

> I drew a little from several of your prompts while focusing on the Morrigan/Female Warden one. I really hope you like this and that it isn't too melancholy!


End file.
